


[] CALLS ME TO THE THINGS OF THIS WORLD

by heartequals (savvygambols)



Series: Dedicated to Vice President-elect Mike Pence [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: I dedicate this gay fanfic to my vice president-elect Mike Pence for being a stellar LGBTQ ally, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savvygambols/pseuds/heartequals
Summary: Merriell didn’t put a whole lot of thought into the whole “you’re tied to your beloved by the words on your body” so he was entirely disinterested when the world “FUCK” appeared in curlicue on the crook of his elbow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ray for the prompt of: “well, now you have to write ‘first word’ soulmate au in your favourite fandom”.
> 
> Title and a turn of phrase borrowed from [Love Calls Us to the Things of This World](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43048) by Richard Wilbur but otherwise has 0% to do with that poem. If you are looking for a better epigraph, try this quote from Sherman Alexie's brother poem, [Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/grief-calls-us-things-world):
>
>>   
>  _Those angels burden and unbalance us._   
>  _Those fucking angels ride us piggyback._   
> 

Merriell didn’t put a whole lot of thought into the whole “you’re tied to your beloved by the words on your body”, sure Grand-mère, great way to talk about the dangers of drinking and not saying prayers before bed to the grandkids, so he was entirely disinterested when the world “FUCK” appeared in curlicue on the crook of his elbow. Well, mostly.

“[Fuck]in’ weird,” said his cousin when he showed them the next day before school.

“Shut the hell up,” said Merriell. “None of you ever say ‘fuck’ to me again.”

His cousins spent the rest of the day shouting “[FUCK]” at him in class, outside of class, in the principal’s office, in detention, and on the way home from school an hour after school let out and then again after dinner until Merrill planted a fist squarely in his oldest cousin’s jaw.

He showed Grand-mère the tattoo as an afterthought and she just sighed. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t know what so she just sighed again. So Merriell went to do his homework instead and look for shirts with sleeves.

The good thing about the Marines is that they paid you okay and made you do push-ups until you could do a sorta ripple effect with the word “[FUCK]” on your arm if you flexed right and you could make all the guys laugh because of it. The bad thing was that they sent you to war to die. But that wasn’t too bad either. No, what was really bad was that everyone seemed to be yelling “[FUCK]” at one point or another. Snafu spent the first two weeks of bootcamp flinching and not just because he was getting his ass beat.

But he never felt “awash in the light of angels and love”, thanks Grand-mère, when any of the guys or anybody said it so he figured he got a divine tattoo. On leave in Australia one time he got a guy to tattoo some stuff around it, more curlicues, to make it look intentional, like a real tattoo. Not like God had thought it was a funny joke to put Grand-mère’s least favorite word on the crook of his arm where everyone could see. It looked pretty good then. The guys joked around about [FUCK] but then a couple of them admitted they wished they had something like it. A lot of them just had [hello] or [ma’am] on their backs or knees, if they had anything at all. 

“And we’ll have some good [fuck]in’ luck trying to find our girls.”

“Wish I had a girl who swore.” They all laughed.

Snafu had never considered girls before, but he figured it was always be a possibility.

On some island in the middle of some ocean, Snafu was shoving his way through a crowd of boots with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.

“FUCK,” someone yelled when ash dropped from Snafu’s cigarette onto his hand.

“You better move,” he warned the guy, looking towards him to blow smoke in his face. He choked on the smoke instead, when he suddenly felt awash in the light of angels and love.

“Fuck,” said the boot, with some wonder. Snafu felt it too. He threw his cigarette on the ground.

“You,” he said again.

Snafu never really looked into the particulars of the Marine rulebook after bootcamp but he knew kissing a man in a crowded camp was probably a bad idea. So he yanked the boot’s arm until they were free of the mess of guys. They weren’t subtle when they ran for the jungle behind the camp.

“What’s your name?” the boot asked when they had gotten just out of sight of the camp but not far enough way that they couldn’t hear the boot’s CO yelling. The boot hadn’t even dropped his seabag when they made a run for it, he still had it on his shoulder.

“The fuck does it matter?” Snafu asked and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Ow, fuck! Let go! Let me put this down! Of course it matters!” The boot set his seabag down. “Hi, I’m Eugene Sledge.” He put out his hand to shake. “Who are you?”

“Okay,” said Merriell, and grabbed Eugene by the shoulders, and kissed him.

“No, your name!” protested Eugene, but really half-heartedly, like he wanted to kiss Snafu more than talk. Snafu was awash in the light of angels and love but if this was his beloved maybe his beloved should know his name. He was only gonna get one beloved in his lifetime anyway. He only had the one tattoo.

“Merriell Shelton,” he said. “But everyone calls me Snafu, on account of my being a fuck up.”

“Okay,” said Eugene, looking a little confused and a lot dazed, so Merriell kissed him again. Awash in the light of angels and love.

20 minutes later Merriell’s back was against a tree and his CO was raising holy hell down in camp, screaming for Snafu’s blood.

“Shit,” he said, shoving Eugene away and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You better not be in my unit, boot. Then you’re gonna have to die with me.”

“I hope so,” said Eugene. “I don’t want to die without you.” He picked up his bag from the ground. “Nice to meet you, Merriell – I mean, Snafu.”

“You too, Sledge,” said Snafu uncomfortably. He hesitated and then kissed Eugene on the cheek because this was his beloved and they were gonna die anyway so he might as well make sure he got one last kiss in.

They went back to camp. Or, Sledge went one way, and Snafu went another, and they both got chewed out by Hillbilly, because Eugene was in Snafu’s unit. So they were gonna die together after all. But that wasn’t too bad. At least Snafu had met his beloved. And Hillbilly wasn’t too mad, more for disappearing than not listening. He let up, anyway, when he saw Snafu touch his elbow at the same time that Eugene rubbed the back of his neck. Snafu was uncomfortable, but he was also awash.

The feeling of being awash in the light of angels and love wore off once they were back fighting. Or maybe it didn’t but Snafu couldn’t see how. It was hard to be in love when you’re getting shot at. Or maybe being in love just made it worse. Merriell had to worry about two people now, himself and Eugene, and that made the whole thing hell.

Two years later they’re on a train rolling through the south. Back home. Snafu is amazed he isn’t dead. And that FUCK still hasn’t worn off his arm. Burgie says goodbye to them before he gets off the train and they watch him embrace his little brother.

“You’ll wake me up before you get off, right?” says Eugene, as the train rolls out of the station and into the evening. He relaxes against the window and looks at Merriell with half-lidded eyes, like he’s all innocent and hasn’t killed dozens of people in war. Merriell smirks.

“Got your address in my pocket,” said Merriell, patting his breast pocket. “Don’t you worry about me. You can’t get rid of me so easy.”

Snafu does not wake Sledge up when he leaves. He grabs his bag, gives Sledge one last look, and walks off the train in New Orleans. He fishes Sledge’s address out of his pocket and throws it in the trash as he leaves the station. It hurts but the war is over. Home sweet home. Eugene doesn’t belong here.

Grand-mère is so pleased to see him she can’t speak. She’s older now, slower, but all the cousins fall back when she embraces Merriell with tears in her eyes. “Merriell,” she says again and again. “You made it. You made it.”

Merriell holds her tight and ignores the heaviness in his chest. Maybe he should have said goodbye to Eugene. Too late. Fuck him, anyway. Well he never got a chance, with the war, and trying not to die, but fuck him anyway.

There’s a couple more cousins living with her now so he’s out on a folding bed in back porch instead of his old room. Fine with him – he’s learned to like sleeping outside. He undresses in the house and grabs his rattiest shirt from his bag to sleep in. And it’s nice, autumn now so it’s not too muggy and the bugs are all gone. It’s quiet, the chickens are all asleep. His collar itches when he lies down. He stares at the roof of the porch and aches. His collar itches a lot.

He scratches his neck and pulls out a piece of paper. Merriell squints at the writing on it in the moonlight.

 _FUCK YOU, SHELTON_ , the paper reads, followed by Eugene’s address. _WRITE ME, asshole_.

Merriell smiles and tucks the paper under the pillow. He is awash. He made it.


End file.
